She broke down, and tears finished the sentence.
Mr. Danvers was aghast. He had not seen her cry for twenty years,—not since her mother died. Getting up with difficulty, he waddled to her end of the table, and, gingerly tapping her shoulder, ejaculated, “So, so, there,—so, so.”
Mrs. Danvers wiped her eyes and gave him a slight push. “I’m not a cow, Israel, and go back to your seat. There’s some one coming.”
Nina was quietly slipping in through the window. Approaching the foot of the table, she took Mr. Danvers’s bald head in her embrace and kissed him sweetly and fervently. Then, nearing the head of the table, she pecked at Mrs. Danvers’s cheek in an affectionate but perfunctory manner.
“Here’s your mush,” said Mrs. Danvers, uncovering a small bowl. “Israel, pass the cream; where’s Captain Fordyce, Nina?”
“I left him on the bridge. I think he must be waiting for the moon,” she said, seriously.
Her lips were pale, and there was a nervous expression about her eyes, and Mrs. Danvers said to herself, “They’ve had a quarrel.”
“Ever see him by daylight before, pussy?” asked Mr. Danvers.
“No, daddy.”
“Must look kind of queer.”